


Home

by LinguistLove_24



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: F/M, Long-Distance Relationship, POV First Person, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 13:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11692938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinguistLove_24/pseuds/LinguistLove_24
Summary: Inspired by the song 'Gettin' You Home' by Chris YoungBill's POVSet SoS years





	Home

**Home**

 

“I miss you, honey.”

 

Her voice is thick and gravelly and I imagine her laying atop the covers of a hotel bed, dark circles under her eyes giving away the true extent of her exhaustion. A kind that – as she once begrudgingly disclosed to me – is often felt in the depth of her bones.

 

“I miss you more,” I say exaggerating my natural drawl, and she laughs softly, a balm to my soul.

 

“I'm sorry if I woke you. This room feels too big to be alone in after how many people I was around all day.”

 

Chuckling softly at her words, I allow my eyes to fall closed and can see in my mind's eye exactly what she's doing, how she's situated: She has turned halfway onto one side, propped herself up on an elbow. Tips of the long blonde hair she has let grow out gracefully graze a pillow. She stretches out a foot and twirls her ankle several times, what she always does in the evenings to relieve tension in her calves. I think of the ritual and become wistful wishing time zones didn't separate us, so that I could relieve it for her.

 

“You did,” I tell her, “but you know I don't care.”

 

Stay awake with me,” she pleads, 'til I fall asleep.”

 

“I'll try.” I'm groggy and I stifle a yawn, but can't help smiling into the phone.

 

“I want to come home,” she says, manner nearly akin to that of an insolent child. “I want to see you.”

 

“I know, baby.” My mind briefly wanders back to my presidency, all the times I was forced to be away from her and the inconsolable being I became. Imagining my wife in the same way hurts my heart. In that second, I'm glad I can't see her.

 

Her breathing is all that fills the line. Slow and heavy, it makes me wonder if she's finally given in and allowed herself to fall into the deep slumber she undoubtedly needs.

 

“FaceTime with me?” she questions in a soft whisper, and I startle, caught off guard.

 

“Okay,” I whisper back, unsure of why I'm doing it. There is no one here to wake except the dogs, but something in the moment calls for the serene. “Give me a second.”

 

“Hi.” I greet her tenderly once a connection is established, and despite her fatigue, I can make out a sparkle in her eyes. “You look good.”

 

“Oh, stop it,” she says dismissively, genuinely laughing. “Things okay over there?”

 

“Fine,” I reassure. “Chelsea came by the other day, says she hasn't been able to get hold of you.”

 

“Is she okay?” The maternal instinct instantly emerges and reminds me of a mama bear with a pack of cubs. “I saw she had called, I just haven't had a chance to call her back.”

 

“She is absolutely fine. Just misses you. Sends her love. I'm sure y'all will plan something for when you get back.”

 

“We will.”

 

Her sentences start to become laboured and slurred, and I can see she's nearly asleep, forcing herself to stay awake, clinging to familiar in an unfamiliar place.

 

“But I want to see you first,” she says.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“When I get home. I will plan something with Chelsea, but I want to see you first.”

 

“Shh,” I soothe. “You will. We'll go on that date night I keep promising you. Just sleep, love, okay?”

 

“Okay,” she relents. “Love you.”

 

“Me too,” I respond, disconnecting us.

 

**///**

 

“Babe, are you ready?” I yell up the spiral staircase, checking my wristwatch. It's over an hour since she told me she was heading up to get a shower.

 

“Ten more minutes!” she calls back, and I shake my head imagining her up in our bedroom recklessly sifting through hangers on her side of the closet, tossing unwanted outfits onto the comforters in frustration.

 

“Just so you know,” I tell her when I come to, “I don't care what you wear, only what's underneath it.”

 

“Perv!” she shrieks, but I can hear her distant laughter.

 

“Seriously though honey, hurry up. I made reservations.”

 

“I'm _coming,”_ she answers in exasperation, and I know it'll be twenty minutes as opposed to ten.

 

**///**

A half hour into our reserved dinner date, I know I've made a mistake in coming. The establishment is everything it should have been, everything my wife deserves: clean, regal, run like a well oiled machine. We have been waited on hand and foot the entire time, greeted with kind eyes and pleasant smiles. The only complaint I have is that we have gone out to begin with. I have a sudden and intense desire to be curled up next to her in our bed.

 

I watch her in attempt to clear my mind, but this does another kind of number on me altogether. She's drinking red wine, peering curiously at me over the rim of her glass. My eyes focus on pursed lips as they cling to its edge and I fight the urge to physically reach between our bodies and peel the goblet away.

 

I straighten my tie – an asinine sort of distraction – and when she finally does set the drink gently back down on the tabletop leaving behind an outline of red lipstick, I vow as soon as possible to devour those beautiful lips until they are swollen and tingling. She almost always wears plumper, I can tell she has tonight. I'm forever reiterating that as long as I'm her husband, she never really needs it.

 

Letting go of the tie I've fidgeted with longer than necessary, I let my gaze burn into hers. She is flush, her cheeks have pinkened. The blush creeps slowly downward, blanketing areas of neck her black dress leaves exposed. I see her squirm almost imperceptibly in her seat and she looks away, folds her hands in her lap.

 

I know without having to look the little shifting dance that is occurring under the table and experience tingling sensations of my own in anticipation for what I'm certain awaits beneath thin layers of fabric. A gift I can slowly, gleefully unwrap once we are alone. It is the same one I have unveiled a hundred times, my senses forever discovering newness in the established.

 

“Cheque please,” I say louder than I mean to, using an elegant hand to flag the waiter.

 

“Bill,” Hillary says to me, perplexed. “We haven't even gotten our food.”

 

 

I hear what she's saying, feel myself nodding to the affirmative, but all I can focus on is the way the little black dress kindly clings to the top of her. Both of her shoulders are also bare, exposed to the elements as the sleeves rest perfectly below them. I envision my teeth gently grazing the fibre until it's free and loose enough to fall to the floor, a globule black as night fanned out around her feet, strong contrast to the porcelain of her skin.

 

This night is not turning out to be the one I had planned, but it will be more than the one she wanted.

 

“I know,” I tell her softly, sliding my hand across the pristine white tablecloth to caress and tangle it with hers. I feel her start to draw invisible heart shaped patterns over the veins protruding from my skin, and I exhale. “But all I can think about is gettin' you home.”


End file.
